


Catalyst

by RiverTam



Series: The Black Fox and the Bloodhound [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Getting Together, HYDRA Husbands, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Living undercover, M/M, Military, On the Run, Retrograde Amnesia, STRIKE Team Alpha, Strike - Freeform, Traumatic Brain Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:48:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21609337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiverTam/pseuds/RiverTam
Summary: Jack and Brock settle into their new lives.  Mostly.
Relationships: Jack Rollins & Brock Rumlow, Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Series: The Black Fox and the Bloodhound [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1494413
Comments: 14
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:**  
>  \- Vague implied/referenced past sexual abuse of a character. No details  
> \- Brief non-graphic, non-sexual nudity  
> \- Frustration resulting from amnesia
> 
>  **Quick note:**  
>  In this universe, due to the differences in circumstances through childhood, Mickey identifies as cishet male. For context for anyone unfamiliar with my main work We Hold The Key, Mickey is a trans woman in that series.

For all the potential awkwardness that could have resulted from a commander and his lieutenant fucking off to go play _Little House on the Prairie_ , it didn’t take Brock and Jack much more than a few days to settle into a surprisingly domestic routine. Between bringing the cabin out of its hibernation and gathering the necessities from the nearby town and the land around them, it left little time to stew on how their lives had changed so drastically and so suddenly.

Decades of living in on-base barracks while on duty and keeping the pride of SHIELD’s STRIKE division running at peak efficiency meant that the house was quickly cleaned, tidied, and kept that way without much more than a few questions about where to find the rags and spray bottles. They moved together in an instinctive dance, balancing the chores between them with an ease of practice that Brock couldn’t remember having.

And it definitely didn’t hurt that it gave Brock a chance to let his eyes wander over the rare personal touches Jack and his family had left over the years.

The walls were tastefully outfitted with quality framed artwork, mostly landscapes and reprints of well-known works. It was a little odd, though, that there weren’t any family pictures, nothing to indicate the identities of who had actually lived there, and Brock’s curiosity often warred with his reluctance to violate Jack’s privacy.

The spines of the books he dusted revealed historical fiction, mysteries, high fantasy, and studies in tactics, among other things. Stacks of strategy board games on the bottom shelf of the bookcase nearest to the dining room spurred Jack into telling Brock about his two young cousins and their dreams of following in his footsteps and joining SHIELD. Brock couldn’t help but latch on to the rare glimpse into Jack’s family life and past; he rarely spoke of them nowadays, and Brock felt odd asking about things he should have already known.

The mantelpiece above the main fireplace held an eclectic and perfectly fitting collection of mementos and sentimental items, things that told Brock a disjointed but interesting story. He gently brushed a feather duster over a small resin cast of the Roman Colosseum and nudged a green LEGO lightsaber back into place when it rolled a few inches.

_Justin turns back to look when Jack bends down to pick something up out of the dirt. “C’mon, man,” the scruffy squad leader of the SEAL team says, shoulders tilting as he shifts his hold on his rifle. “We don’t have time to go shopping for souvenirs.”_

_Standing back up, Jack brushes his thumb over what looks at first like a little plastic tube. “Yeah, I know. Thought it was a needle or something.”_

_“And you picked it up?” Mike asks skeptically._

_In answer, Jack just holds up a tiny piece of gray plastic with a translucent green rod attached to it. “Funny how even in the ass end of Pakistan, we still find LEGOs, huh?” He drops the tiny lightsaber into a belt pouch and ignores the way Justin rolls his eyes._

_“Saber.” Phil shrugs when they all give him confused looks. “Better call sign than Hound. He ain’t ugly enough to be Clegane, even with that bullshit scar.” Never mind that Jack’s callsign is older than that new HBO show that Brock still hasn’t gotten around to watching, or that it’s short for Bloodhound._

_“Thanks.” Jack’s response is drier than the desert they’re marching through, and Brock can barely hold in his giggles. “Thanks for that.”_

_“He did cosplay as Qui Gon Jinn, once,” Brock throws in, much to the delight of the SEALs. “Maybe a couple’a times, now that I think about it. I think I got a photo somewhere, I’ll dig it out once we’re on our way back stateside.”_

“Can’t believe you kept this thing.” Glancing over his shoulder at Jack, Brock shook his head and chuckled. “You’re usually not the kind of person to keep trophies, even from high profile missions.”

“It’s not a trophy,” Jack shot back with a subtle eye roll.

Moving further down the mantel, Brock worked the dust away from a display case containing an old, worn Morse Code key with _JHM_ engraved on it. “What is it, then?”

“A reminder,” he said, more quietly than Brock expected, and gave him a slight smile. “Something tangible to make sure I never forget what I did, or why.”

And that made more sense than Brock was entirely ready to admit. He touched the little lightsaber one more time before moving on to the nearby bookcase. “Those were good men we served with.”

Jack nodded, and his features relaxed. “I had coffee with Dawson a month or so back, actually, right before we had to skip town. He said the guys are doing great.” The tip of his tongue crept out from between his lips as he carefully screwed a freshly cleaned vent cover back onto the ceiling.

It was later that day, when Jack decided to take a shower to get the sheetrock and wood dust out of his hair, that Brock faceplanted into the first of his missing memories.

Brock had automatically grabbed a towel from the linen closet and was already on his way toward the master bathroom when he heard Jack shut off the shower and then curse colorfully. Sticking his hand through the cracked-open door - _airflow, Jack, you need airflow for the fan or it ain’t gonna do you a lick’a good out here -_ Brock held the fluffy monstrosity of a towel out in exchange for a grateful mumble.

Once the towel left his hand, he nudged the door open with his knee and leaned against the frame as Jack fluffed the towel over his head. It wasn’t like they hadn’t seen each other naked before, given that the STRIKE locker rooms and showers did little to preserve privacy; honestly, it didn’t faze either of them at this point. The baby agents were always baffled by how the veterans never had any modesty, but… only so much of that to be had after you dug a bullet out of a guy’s ass.

Jack finished toweling off quickly and draped it around his neck to catch the drips from his hair. It always surprised Brock how much curlier Jack’s hair was when wet, especially since he wasn’t slicking it back every day like he’d done before. Picking up a thick-toothed comb from the vanity, Jack smirked at Brock before looking at the mirror. “You gonna stare all day?”

“I dunno, I got something pretty nice to stare at.”

The comment dragged a laugh out of Jack as he combed his hair back away from his face. “Careful, or I’m gonna think you’re flirting with me.”

Brock snickered and shook his head, then looked past Jack at the shower door. Something in the pattern of the tiles remind him of a mission, early on, where-

_“Two to a bathroom,” Brock says, pointing down the hall of the safehouse. “Trade off, save water and time. And quit yer bitchin’ or it’s gonna be three. Kingsley, Mercer, you first. Take the hall shower. Rollins, you’re with me.”_

“Did we ever shower together on missions?” As someone who prided himself on his encyclopedic knowledge of everything involving team, mission, location, and target, it bothered Brock to no end that everywhere he turned, he ran into blank walls in his own head. Even when it came to small details like this one. _Especially_ when it came to the small details.

A few quick flicks got most of the water off Jack’s comb before he set it back on the vanity. He dragged the towel over his head and shoulders one last time before he hung it back up and reached for clean clothes. “The whole team showered together, on missions and on base. It’s one of the only reasons we could get away with it.”

Before Brock could ask a follow-up question, Jack turned to face him fully. “We never did anything on duty, though. Neither of us wanted to take chances, with fraternization regs or mission readiness.”

And that was more of a relief than Brock cared to admit. Compartmentalization had kept both of them alive this long, and it was good to know that he’d had the good sense to maintain that before the head injury. Soldiers’ lives had depended on Brock being on his game at all times.

He nodded, eyes tracing the grout between the smooth tiles under Jack’s feet. A few water droplets reflected the light from above the mirror, blinking out momentarily as Jack’s arm crossed the reflection.

“Harrison’s a good man,” Jack said quietly as he cupped Brock’s jaw in his hand and brushed a thumb over his cheekbone. Next in line after Jack, Harrison would have been promoted to Acting Commander quickly after Brock and Jack fled north. “He’s a good man, a veteran soldier, and he knows how to lead. He’ll keep them alive.”

It was just like Jack to see right through him, the same way he always did, picking apart what was bothering Brock before he ever knew it himself. He put his hand over Jack’s and smiled a little thinly. “I know. I still worry.”

“They’re family,” Jack answered as he turned back to finish getting dressed. “I’d be more concerned if you didn’t worry.”

The first time they dared venture into the nearby town - and ‘town’ was generous - was when they used up what hadn’t expired in the pantry and they needed food they couldn’t hunt or forage for. Flour, namely.

Brock was on a baking kick. So sue him.

The moment Jack’s stomach growled in the parking lot of the grocery store, though, Brock grabbed him by the arm and dragged him toward the nearest source of food, one Lonny's Diner. “I’m not going to freak out the clerk by paying in cash for the collateral damage of that bottomless pit you call a stomach,” he said over Jack’s half-hearted protests. “Do _you_ want to explain to the sheriff why the new guys in town have three hundred dollars in small bills?”

Jack straightened his jacket with a roll of his eyes.

“Didn’t think so. C’mon, I’ll even let you gross me out with Eggs Benedict.”

“You _Philistine,”_ Jack shot back as they walked in the door of the diner. “First, you attack the blessed gift that is Irish Breakfast Tea, and now you take a shot at my eggs-”

The smile of the girl that greeted them was blindingly bright. “Hey boys! Wherever you wanna sit; here’s some menus. We'll be right over."

The booths and tables were a little too conveniently placed for maximizing sight lines, and strategically mounted mirrors did a lot to improve visibility around the seating area. Window frames too thick and spaced too widely for civilian dual-pane glass told Brock the glass was reinforced at the least, likely bulletproof. He peered around with interest as he and Jack headed for a table in the corner with a wall for cover.

Unremarkable menus were oddly welcome, a sense of normalcy while Brock still felt unbalanced from the unexpected move. The waiter that approached them - owner, actually, judging by the all-caps LONNY on his nametag - was less unremarkable.

“Vets, huh?” he asked as he set down two white mugs and offered them coffee. While his hair was well past regulation length, Lonny still had the upright yet loose posture of a career soldier, and a few small scars on his arms marked him as a close quarters specialist.

Brock chuckled to cover up the chill spreading up his spine. “That obvious?”

“Most folk don’t go out of their way to sit back here.” As Lonny tipped the carafe, his t-shirt sleeve crept up to expose a tattoo of a frog’s skeleton climbing up his bicep. He pointed to the thin, utilitarian chain around Brock’s neck disappearing under his shirt and added, “Also, you’re still wearin’ your tags, and Tall, Dark, and Stabby here has a Benchmade pocket clip showin'. But don't cause no trouble and no trouble'll find you, here.”

Somewhat reassured that Lonny didn't mean them harm, Brock forced himself to relax as he dumped a few packets of sugar into his coffee. "Hooyah."

“Sleepy little town like this seemed like a good place to get our heads back on straight after our last tour,” Jack said easily as he wrapped his hands around his mug and gave Lonny a discerning look. “Family friend of mine offered to let us stay in the cabin off Wainwright for a spell.”

Lonny made a sympathetic noise as he took out a well-worn, half-used notepad. “Good to hear that place has people, again. Been a while since old Gus was out there, I was startin’ to wonder if the property got abandoned. Now, what can I get you boys?”

Once they were alone again, Brock swore under his breath and rubbed his forehead. Still wearing his tags. Rookie mistake.

“Relax,” Jack said quietly. “I’ve been keeping an eye on things. BOLO never made it this far north, else I’d’ve made sure we were wearin’ PV masks today.”

“Still. These people don’t need our mess fuckin’ up their lives. Also, who’s Gus?”

Acknowledging Brock’s point with a slight wave of his fingers, Jack settled more comfortably into his seat. “My uncle. Mum’s older brother. He hasn’t been up here in probably eight, ten years. Not since my cousin Harry was born."

Brock frowned at his coffee, chewing his lip. “Willowy guy, mustache, Irish accent, cowboy hat practically glued to his head?”

“That’s him.”

“It’s still hilarious how a bunch of Irish people ended up owning a ranch down in Georgia. Your weird accent is a goddamned national treasure, man.”

“Grandad wanted someplace quiet to retire, so Bumfuck Nowhere, Georgia seemed like as good an option as any,” Jack said with a shrug and a smirk. “My great-aunt helped us find it and get us set up there.”

“You were just a kid when you came over, huh?”

“Five and a half.”

Eyes twinkling, Brock took a sip of his blisteringly strong coffee. “Can’t forget the half. Dual citizenship, right?”

“Could go for triple if I really wanted to arm wrestle with the British government, but I figure they have enough on their plate with all the fuckin’ Brexit hubub. Not gonna push my luck there.”

“Mm, that reminds me,” Brock continued, keeping his voice low. “Who are we, here?” The documents in the bug-out bag were a good start, but did nothing to breathe life into their new identities as Sean O’Carrick and Ethan Farina.

Jack gave him a soft smile and reached out to wrap his hand around Brock’s. “How about ourselves?”

Neither of them noticed Lonny looking over at just that moment, or the sympathetic understanding that spread over his face. Even so, two pieces of pie on the house and the promise that they were welcome back anytime did a lot to ease the tension in Brock’s shoulders.

Sunday brunch at Lonny's became a bit of a tradition, after that.


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn’t that Brock never felt any attraction to Jack, after Libya. If anything, his years-long string of one-night stands and short flings had been mostly to distract himself so that it was easier to maintain professional distance. 

Still, it’d been nearly a month since they first stepped into the cabin, and Brock was beginning to wonder who would - or should - make the first serious move. Small affections and kissing had happened, but nothing much more than making out against the kitchen counter together and getting a little breathless in the process.

It was definitely a change of pace from what he was used to.

It also made it confusing, edging on frustrating, that they’d been sharing a bed since that first night; practicality won out at first, while they’d traded off watch shifts. Then, it just became habit once they both learned to trust the cabin’s security system.

But now, in the small hours of a chilly October night, it left Brock staring at Jack’s broad back as he lay there, unable to sleep, not sure if he was allowed to scoot closer and curl up against him.

A quiet noise pulled Brock out of his thoughts, followed by a subtle curl in Jack’s shoulders as tension flickered through him. _Must be a nightmare night,_ Brock thought with a grim frown; they both had them. Occupational hazard. It was more concerning when a soldier _didn’t_ get a regular Best Of reel of his worst and scariest moments.

Jack flinched in his sleep, curling tighter on his side, and the diffused moonlight filtering through the curtains cast a faint shadow from the vein standing out on Jack’s upper arm.

“Jack, hey,” Brock said quietly as he reached out to see if he could shake Jack awake. “Hey, man, wake up.” He’d learned over the years to interrupt Jack’s nightmares when he could. Generally, Brock did better when he let them run their course, but Jack’s were something else entirely, and waking him up was far better than letting Jack suffer through the vivid machinations of his mind.

Waking with a start and a quiet gasp, Jack flinched away from Brock’s hand, knees coming up to his chest as he breathed raggedly. He wrapped a shaking hand around the back of his neck, and it was clear he was making an effort to count his breaths and slow them down.

“Jack, hey, you’re safe.” As much as he wanted to move closer, Brock didn’t think that would help, so he sat up and leaned against the headboard. “We’re at the cabin. It’s a little after 0200.”

When Jack didn’t respond, Brock’s eyebrows pulled together. “Jack? Tato?” The Italian pet name slipped out easily, the shape of it feeling natural despite the sound of it being unfamiliar. It got Jack’s shoulders to relax a little, though, so Brock repeated it a few more times for good measure.

When Jack’s hands had stopped shaking, Brock reached out toward him, then hesitated. “Is it okay if I touch you?”

Jack took a deep breath, exhaled, then rolled onto his back. He stared up at the ceiling with red eyes for a few seconds before looking over at Brock and nodding.

Moving slowly to avoid spooking him, Brock laid down next to him and pulled Jack into his arms, doing his best to cradle the larger man to his chest. “You need to talk about anything, or just leave it be?”

Jack was quiet for almost a minute before he mumbled, “Tried to move on after Libya. Had a Grindr hookup that… didn’t end well.”

Brock’s throat tightened enough that he had trouble breathing for a few seconds, his heartbeat pounding in his head. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, doing his best to keep his hand on the back of Jack’s head gentle. “Do I gotta go hunt a guy down and hide the body?”

“Already did,” Jack said in that same small voice. “Still fucks my head up every so often, though.”

And realistically, Brock probably shouldn’t have been thrilled that Jack murdered and disappeared a civilian, but… he’d worry about that when he was feeling less protective of his husband.

At least it gave some chilling context to why things between them were moving so slowly.

Jack drew in a deep breath and exhaled. “I think sharin’ a bed again is bringin’ it back… don' want you t'leave though…

“Ain’t goin’ anywhere unless you tell me you want space, tato.” Pressing a kiss to Jack’s forehead, Brock sighed. “Why the fuck did you let me send you out on honeypot missions?”

“‘s different, when it’s work. Dunno why, just is.”

“Doesn’t make it right.”

A mumbled apology and Jack’s fingers wrapping themselves up in the fabric of Brock’s shirt was all the response he got. Brock sighed and carded a hand through Jack’s hair, gently easing out the tangles it had picked up overnight.

“You take the time you need for us, okay?” Brock murmured.

“Even if it’s…”

“I have hands and a bottle’a lube, Jack, and I ain’t afraid to use ‘em when I need to. You gotta wait, then we wait.”

Jack’s head brushed against Brock’s chin and neck as he nodded. “Thank you.”

They woke up the next morning with sunlight dappling Jack’s shoulders, tangled up together in the bed, arms and legs intertwined.

Brock wouldn’t trade this for _any_ of his past flings.

Jack’s always had odd quirks. So has Brock. It wasn’t just a part of being on a Tier 1 team, it was part of being anything resembling a functional adult.

Still, it was weird how there was always a saucer of milk on the step outside the back door, when neither of them even put milk in their coffee. The horseshoe above the front door, Brock could get behind; he’s seen those before. Having to use an old-style iron key for the house took some adjustment, though.

“We’ve fired RPGs at space whales, and you got your ass beat by an Asgardian god six months ago,” Jack said dryly when Brock asked him about it. “Trust me, we’ve seen _way_ weirder shit than the Fair Folk wanderin’ around the house.”

“Jack, they aren’t real. Fairi-”

A finger on his lips stopped him before he could finish the word. “They hate being called that.”

“You’re fuckin’ bugnuts, man.”

Jack just hummed and smiled and went back to chopping vegetables with a little twirl of his knife. “And somehow, you still thought it was worth it to ask me to marry you.”

“At least there’s never a dull moment. I’ll grant you that.”

The happy, excited noise Jack made in the other room pulled Brock in after it, curious. He found Jack sitting cross-legged on the floor with a large box in front of him, carefully sliding a record out of its sleeve. “Thank god I convinced my dad to keep these,” he said with a glance at Brock as he showed him the album artwork. “Dime a dozen back then, rare as hen’s teeth nowadays.”

Chuckling, Brock sat down next to him and pulled out another album. “Shit, Jack, there’s only maybe a few hundred copies of this one left.”

“I _know.”_

Brock stopped himself hard from estimating the pawn shop value of everything in the box; these were family heirlooms. And not his choice whether to sell or keep them, regardless. He slid the delicate black disc back into its sleeve and gave it to Jack to set aside.

Rather than add it to the growing stack next to him, though, Jack smoothly stood and crossed the room to the cabinet housing the turntable. He got it all set up with the ease of practice, and within a few seconds, a smooth instrumental intro filled the room.

Turning around, Jack gave Brock a smile, oddly nervous-

_“They’ll love you, I promise,” Jack says, his smile a little shaky and his knuckles white from his death grip on the steering wheel of the Chevy. “They’ll love you.”_

_They bounce a bit as they drive down the dirt road up to the most gi-fucking-antic house Brock has ever seen. Right as they pull onto the paved slab in front of the house, the front door opens and the beribboned green wreath hung on it swings a little from the movement._

_“Jack…”_

_“Hm?” Kicking the parking brake down, Jack shuts off the engine and slots the transmission into gear._

_“You told them you were bringin’ a dude, right?”_

_Jack blinks at him a few times, hand still at the ignition, before laughing awkwardly. “Brock, you meatball, they’ve known I’m gay since I told ‘em when I was eight.”_

_“Okay, good, just checking,” Brock replies a little too quickly and a little too high-pitched. He’s not sure which of them is more nervous._

Brock blinked and rubbed at his forehead, then took a breath and stood up.

“Memory?” Jack had learned by this point that when Brock’s eyes glazed over and he chewed on his lip, something from Before had resurfaced.

Nodding, Brock walked over until he was standing just in front of Jack. “Meeting your parents at Christmas. Or, well, driving to the house to meet them.”

Jack’s smile had a a sad cast to it, then softened as he held a hand out for Brock. “They had this playing in the living room when I brought you to the ranch the first time.”

“Well, that explains it.” After a moment’s hesitation, Brock put his hand in Jack’s and let himself be pulled in. “Did I forget that you like to dance?”

“Not like it came up a whole lot, at work.”

Brock shook his head and sighed as Jack spun them around in a slow circle. “I loaned you out to Romanoff on several occasions.”

“Not stepping on her toes is a little different than jumping around in a leotard and heavy makeup.”

“You say that like you have experience doing it.”

Jack’s shrug was a little too nonchalant. “I did a few productions in high school and college.”

“Oh, really? Do tell.”

“Why do I even open my big mouth sometimes.”

Laughing, Brock leaned against Jack and rested his forehead against the other man’s neck. “You know I’m gonna go digging through that box of VHS tapes until I find the evidence, now.”

Jack groaned and swore.

It must have been magic, though, because the next evening, a small stack of tapes with various show names written on the labels in fat Sharpie appeared on the coffee table. _Cats. Oklahoma. Les Miserables._ Even _Singin’ in the Rain._

Brock made popcorn.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content warning** for discussion of and references to the Mandarin from Iron Man 3.

Two and a half months after they ran, the world caught up with them.

Brock’s eyes were finally peeling themselves open after his second cup of Lonny’s Navy-strength coffee; the brush clearing they’d done around the cabin the day before wore him out more than expected.

Frowning at his phone as he scrolled through his news feed, Jack shoveled his second helping of eggs into his mouth like they were still in the chow hall at the Ops Academy.

“One of these days, your metabolism is finally going to slow down and then I won’t feel so bad about getting dad bod in my old age,” Brock grumbled, dragging a hand through hair that was longer than he usually wore it. He wasn’t completely sold on the whole clean-shaven thing either, but Jack told him it made him look younger, so…

“Y’know, you’d have to actually _drink_ beer to get a beer belly.”

Scoffing, Brock stifled a smirk and looked over at the inane sitcom providing background noise up near the bar counter. “Not sure that’s how that works, tato.”

“Calories in, calories out, right?” Jack countered. “Sure, we’re not doing PT every day anymore, but that doesn’t-”

The dull whine of a 1000 Hz test tone from the TV sucked all the air out of the diner, and Brock’s attention snapped to the screen faster than if someone had pulled out a gun and started shooting. He already had his hands on the table, halfway out of his seat, when Jack reached out and grabbed his wrist to stop him. The buzz of anxiety chilling Jack’s skin distracted Brock for a split second before he turned his attention back to the unplanned broadcast.

Instead of the Emergency Broadcast System, though, a red banner with the emblem of the Ten Rings flashed over the screen. Brock’s blood ran cold, and he didn’t need to look at Jack to know that the quick burst of fear had overflowed through the skin contact between them.

_“Some people call me a terrorist…”_

Brock swore under his breath; they’d been chasing the Ten Rings for _years,_ even before Stark had been captured in the desert.

 _“America… ready for another lesson?”_ The man on screen had a scraggly dark beard, sunglasses, and long robes; the resemblance to the leaders of terrorist organizations in the Middle East clearly wasn’t lost on anyone in the diner.

At the bar counter, Lonny set his coffee carafe down with a dull clunk and subtly reached under the counter for what Brock suspected was a shotgun. Brock’s eyes flicked over to Jack, who was watching Lonny carefully. Eyes narrowing, Jack focused on the retired SEAL for several seconds before subtly shaking his head. _No danger._

Brock raised an eyebrow - _you sure?_ But Jack just nodded and loosened his grip on Brock’s wrist.

_“Thirty-nine hours ago, Ali Al Salem Air Base in Kuwait was attacked.”_

Another curse under his breath didn’t do much to dispel the feeling of helpless anger rising up in Brock. He closed his eyes when the man on TV remorselessly claimed responsibility for killing - _murdering_ \- women and children.

 _“You know who I am. You don’t know_ where _I am. And you’ll never see me coming.”_

The inane sitcom resumed moments later, and its laugh track was hair-raisingly eerie in the dead silence in the diner. It took another ten seconds after that for Lonny to release his grip on the hidden gun and lean on the counter, head hanging as he took slow, measured breaths.

Jack gave Brock a meaningful look over a suddenly unappetizing breakfast.

“No. No, no, I know that look.” Pointing at the stubborn determination on Jack’s face, Brock scowled. “Whatever it is you’re thinking, no.”

“Since when does the Mandarin show his face to the whole fuckin’ world, let alone anyone outside of the First Ring?” Jack hissed, eyebrows furrowed. “I spent two _years_ undercover after Stark's capture, killing my way up the food chain, and I wasn’t able to confirm the guy even _exists._ I told SHIELD in my debrief that the title referred to their version of Uncle goddamn Sam, not a real person. And now he’s on TV?”

“Jack-”

“Also-” Jack pointed to the TV, now innocently playing an infomercial. “-guy’s English, and whatever accent he’s using is utter shit.”

Rubbing his forehead, Brock sighed. He missed the days before the internet globalized what hadn’t yet been; his job was so much easier back then. “So he’s using a fake accent to throw people off. He can be English and still be the Mandarin.”

“Then why didn’t we see him hijacking the network and claiming responsibility for the two bombings we ran Damage Control on earlier this year?”

Brock leaned closer and lowered his voice. “There’s an entire team at HQ dedicated to this-”

“I know, I was leading it.”

“-and you’re going to trust them to do their jobs. The longer this guy’s out there, the longer he’s on the air, the better chance they have of finding him.”

Crossing his arms, Jack shook his head and frowned down at his food. “There’s a pattern here. I can’t see it yet, but I can _feel_ it. We need to reach out to Harrison-”

“And do what, Jack? We’re supposed to be _dead._ There’re graves at Arlington and eagles on the Wall of Valor with our names on them. For all we know, this is some elaborate trap to lure us out so Pierce can retire us for real this time.”

Defeat slowly worked its way into Jack’s posture until all the fight had seeped out of him. His eyes dropped to the table, and he swallowed.

“Tato, trust me, I want to go hunt this guy down and end him just as much as you do. But we don’t have any resources, backup, intel, or transport in and out, let alone any way to know this isn’t a trap.”

Jack nodded slightly and chewed on the insides of his cheeks.

Sighing, Brock reached out and took Jack’s hands in his, running his thumbs over the bony knuckles. “Look, I know how good you are at hunting people down. And I know how much the Ten Rings mission frustrated you. But if this really is as big an operation as they’re trying to make us think, you and I aren’t equipped for this.” He traced the tip of his thumb over the bare skin of Jack’s left ring finger and gave the other man a soft, concerned smile. “I don’t want to lose this when I just got it back.”

“We took an oath, Brock,” Jack protested halfheartedly. “Protect and serve and-”

“And _we will_. From the sidelines, where we can stay under the radar.” After giving Jack’s hands a gentle squeeze, Brock picked up his lukewarm coffee. “But just in case this does go tits-up for us… you got an arsenal somewhere in the cabin, right?”

Jack scoffed. “The fuck else am I gonna put in the basement?”

“I dunno, wine bottles?”

“Yeah, because I can totally tell the difference between two-buck chuck and somethin’ expensive from France.”

“Philistine,” Brock shot back with a grin. “See if I take you anywhere fancy ever again.”

“Oh, like the town diner?”

Three small plates of pie hit their table with soft clinks, and they both looked up to see Lonny catch a nearby chair with his foot and drag it over. “Nah, this place’ll never qualify as ‘fancy,’” he said to Jack with a smirk that was a little strained. Once he sat down, he sighed heavily and crossed his arms on the table. “I’m on break for the next fifteen minutes, because Jesus _Christ_ I do _not_ need to be talking to customers right now. Missy Crawford’s stich-and-bitch can bus their own damn dishes today.”

Brock pulled over his pie and picked up the small fork. “You gonna be okay, man?”

“Yeah, I just… It’s tough, being retired and seeing stuff like that. Makes me wanna get back in uniform and go hunt the bastard down, you know?”

Giving Jack a slightly uneasy look, Brock stabbed his fork through an apple slice.

“You and me both,” Jack muttered, bumping his foot against Brock’s under the table in a silent acknowledgement. “But we all got out for a reason, and there’s plenty of capable men and women still serving.”

Lonny nodded and poked at his pie. “Yeah, I know. Just… wish I could do more. My brother’s still active duty; maybe they’ll send his team after the bastard.”

When Brock glanced back at Jack, he got a worried frown back; Jack didn’t look so sure that Lonny wasn’t a risk to them anymore. At least the tension sitting in the pit of Brock’s stomach wouldn’t look out of place, given the circumstances.

The ride back home was quiet and watchful, as Brock kept one hand on the sidearm under his jacket and the other around Jack’s waist. Neither of them relaxed until they got the Harley into the garage, double-checked the security system, and cleared the house room by room.

Standing in the kitchen staring at the worn-smooth tile between his boots, Brock ran through scenarios rapidly. He felt decidedly nervous about what little they knew about the Mandarin or their own precarious anonymity.

“I’m pretty sure Lonny’s not a HYDRA mole,” Jack said as he lit the stove burner and shook the match to extinguish it. Once he set the kettle down to heat, he turned to Brock. “I get mixed signals from him. He’s just as cautious as we are, and we know he’s a retired SEAL, but… after today…”

“If you’d just gone to the training and learned how to use that voodoo shit in your brain, we’d have a better idea,” Brock grumbled, but it was an old argument and he shook his head to avoid rehashing it. “I’d like to assume the best and just pin it on him being another jumpy vet who hates being useless. But I didn’t make it this far by assuming the best.”

“You really think there’s a chance he knows who we are, the Mandarin’s just bait in the trap, and Lonny would turn us in?”

“I’m not sure what to think anymore,” Brock admitted, putting his hands on his hips and chewing on his lip. Neither of them liked the thought of their friend turning on them. “We don’t have a lot to go on, here. I think we should lay low and avoid going into town until we figure this out.” While it had taken some adjustment at first, it was freeing to be working together as equals. No more barked orders, no more worrying about the other soldiers thinking Jack was undermining his authority. No longer Commander and Lieutenant, but _equals._

Equally fucked, but still.

Nodding his agreement, Jack walked over to the kitchen table and opened the laptop he’d left there the day before. “I want to do some digging, see if I can find out anything about this new piece on the chessboard. If nothing else, I can slip Harrison some intel through an old back channel no one monitors anymore.”

“Good plan.” Brock picked up the kettle just as it started to whistle. “There’s a sheet of plywood in the garage we can use for a pin board, and I think I saw a printer in a box when we were cleaning out the attic.” He dropped a bag of Irish breakfast tea into Jack’s mug, then green tea into his own.

Muttering something about missing their team of analysts, Jack opened up a backdoor into the FBI database with an ease that surprised Brock. “Were you always this good with computers?” he asked as he set Jack’s tea down next to the laptop.

“Yeah,” Jack answered distractedly, “but it was outside my scope on STRIKE. We had whole teams for this stuff, so I stayed in my lane for the most part.”

Brock let out a quiet, “huh,” then started rooting through the junk drawer for some pens and a notepad. “I’ll go get that plywood. Don’t let my tea oversteep or I’ll make you drink it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone curious how Brock/Frank Grillo looks cleanshaven with longer hair: 


	4. Chapter 4

Brock rubbed his face as he stood in front of the chaotic mess of patchwork intel that he would have been embarrassed to present to his superiors back at SHIELD. A week and a half of digging, even with Jack’s unexpected hacking skills, had only turned up loose ends and cold trails.

The floorboards creaked quietly as Jack walked up behind him; a hand pressed gently at the small of his back. “Here, sweetheart,” Jack said quietly as he handed Brock a cup of steaming tea. He slid his arm around Brock’s waist, then looked at one of the charts with tired eyes.

Brock wrapped his hands around the warm ceramic and leaned into Jack. “I hate this. Every time we go into something this blind, shit hits the fan.”

Making a noise of agreement, Jack pulled up a sheet of paper pinned to the wall to look at the page under it. “I’ve done about all I can, without alerting all the alphabet soup agencies that someone’s diggin’ around in their databases. But at least we know it ain’t a trap for us.”

“I wish I shared your confidence.” While there hadn’t been any new look-out alerts for men matching Jack’s or Brock’s description, Brock wasn’t so sure HYDRA had given up on finding them yet. He poked halfheartedly at a list of names of missing veterans, half of them written in his own blocky, left-slanting letters and the other in Jack’s neat cursive. “Might have been a trap for these poor fuckers, though.” Nearly a third of the names had lines through them: confirmed deceased.

“Who would hunt down a bunch of traumatized amputees?” Jack wondered, frowning. “They aren’t even any from the same unit. I can’t see the connection beyond medical needs for prostheses.”

“We’re missing data, and a lot of it. Hopefully the team back at HQ is doing better than-”

The security system beeped quietly, then reported that _a_ _vehicle has crossed the perimeter_ in a tinny voice.

Jack moved quickly over to the side table, flipped down the false panel on the front, and pulled out a compact rifle. “I got overwatch,” he said shortly as he reached back into the table.

Catching the sidearm Jack tossed him, Brock headed for the hallway. He tucked the pistol into the back of his jeans and pulled his shirt over it, then resettled his mug in his hand and headed for the kitchen window where he could get a clear view of anyone approaching through the thin curtain.

A tense, quiet minute passed before they first heard the growl of the vehicle’s engine. Brock glanced over at Jack; he was on one knee, rifle braced firmly, face relaxed, breaths slow and deep. The suppressor on the end of the barrel hovered just above the window sill, and Jack’s long trigger finger lay along the side of the rifle as he waited for his target.

The car that nosed its way out of the dense forest was white, low to the ground, and proudly sporting the Audi emblem on the nose. Brock’s eyebrows drew together as he remembered seeing it parked around the side of the diner, and he watched carefully as it parked next to Jack’s truck. The door opened, and Lonny stood up, looking around curiously.

With another quick glance at Jack, Brock headed for the front door. By the time he opened it and stepped outside, Lonny was already halfway there. The brisk October air made Brock shiver reflexively as a breeze brushed over his neck.

Brock waved and gave Lonny a friendly grin as he walked toward him, strategically moving toward a spot that would give Jack a clear shot if needed. “Sean’s taking a nap on the couch,” he said once he was close enough to not need to shout. “What’s up?”

Holding out his hand to shake, Lonny shrugged. He turned instinctively to face Brock, his back toward the house and perfectly positioned as a target; it was clear he wasn’t on his guard, which helped put Brock at ease. “Didn’t see you guys this weekend at the diner, figured I’d stop by and make sure everything’s okay.” The concern in Lonny’s voice sounded genuine, and there weren’t any of the subtle body language cues Brock was looking for to spot an ulterior motive, but he still had to be sure.

“Yeah, just laying low after that scare with the Mandarin.” Brock tucked his free hand into his back pocket next to the hidden gun and smiled ruefully. “Hit a little too close to home after our last deployment, with what we were up against. Sean’s had some trouble sleeping since, so PTSD hermit mode it is until that stabilizes. Neither of us want him being jumpy around civilians.”

Lonny nodded knowingly. “Yeah, especially when the civs are still a little spooked. If the Pentagon hadn’t confirmed the attack on the base in Kuwait, I think people would be more inclined to ignore it and move on, but…”

“Not with how much this Mandarin guy’s been making the brass run around like those yellow overall’d Tic Tacs with glasses from that kid’s movie.”

“Fuckin’ incompetent pricks,” Lonny muttered darkly. “There’s a _reason_ I moved out to Podunk, New York after I got out. Next asshole with brass on his shoulders and a stick up his ass that comes to try an’ give me orders, I’mma beat him over the head with a coffee urn.”

Brock couldn’t help but snicker a bit; an opinion like that was hard to fake and would definitely decrease the likelihood of Lonny willingly answering to a HYDRA handler. “That done with the uniform, eh? So much for wanting to get back in and hunt the bastard down.” He sipped his tea and smirked at Lonny, who rolled his eyes in response.

“Nah, I’d be proud to go back and serve under my old commander again. It’s everything _above_ his pay grade that I got beef with.”

Scoffing and shaking his head, Brock sighed. “I know what you mean. Minimal intel, inexperienced agents transferred in at the last minute…”

“I miss my team, miss my guys, but I don’t miss that.” Looking back toward the house, Lonny frowned in concern. “You let me know if you an’ Sean need anything, okay? Groceries, propane, you name it. Anything that’ll fit in the car.”

“Thanks, man.” Brock held out his hand to clasp Lonny’s again. “I really appreciate it. You take care of yourself, too.”

Lonny waved again as he got back into his car. The engine started with a loud thrum, rumbling pleasantly as Lonny drove away, and Brock stood in the driveway until the forest around the house was silent again.

The door opened and closed, and Jack came out with the rifle cradled in his arm, eyes moving around watchfully. “Well, that was educational.”

“Yeah… I don’t think he’s a mole.” Brock scratched the back of his neck and frowned thoughtfully down the driveway. “Or if he is, he’s doing a better job of it than most people would, except maybe Romanoff.” But even she had her tells, once one knew what to look for.

“That ain’t a fair comparison and you know it,” Jack said with a smirk. “But I got a better read on him, regardless. He’s good.”

“You sure?”

“Would’ve put two rounds in his chest and one in his head if I wasn’t.”

Granted, most people might have been alarmed with how calmly Jack said that about one of their friends, but all Brock felt was relief. “Thanks for having my six.”

“Always,” Jack answered, scanning the forest one last time before shifting his rifle to one hand and wrapping his free arm around Brock’s shoulder’s. “Let’s head inside and get some lunch, then figure out what to do about the paper tornado in the living room.”

In the end, it took them all of another week to run into enough dead ends chasing the Mandarin that they decided to shelve it until something new popped up.

Vigilance was still crucial; while the possibility of a trap to lure them in remained, they had to operate like they were undercover in hostile territory. The civilians in town would likely have been alarmed with how heavily armed both men were, but neither of them wanted to risk being caught unaware and unable to defend themselves or others.

It helped Brock’s anxiety immeasurably when Jack unearthed a set of flesh-colored earbuds from his stash of gear in the basement. Once he could hear Jack at all times, he wasn’t so insistent that they keep eyes on each other whenever they left the house. It was bittersweet when Brock slotted the tiny radio into his ear; after more than six months off the job, he expected it to feel foreign, maybe even uncomfortable, but instead it was familiar and reassuring.

Having an open comm line also meant that they could resume something like their normal routine again. It would have been stranger for the two quiet vets that were new in town to up and vanish after the Mandarin’s broadcast, so Brock and Jack did their best to ease back into community life while still monitoring any risk factors as best they could.

All the energy they’d poured into gathering intel needed an outlet, though, and that’s how Brock found himself manning a table at the local high school's community Halloween celebration and half-listening through his earpiece while Jack goofed off with some of the parents all dressed up as characters from _The Nightmare Before Christmas._ Brock had flatly refused to wear a sheet and a red clown nose, so… here he was, wearing a slightly lopsided set of pink bunny ears. Because that didn’t send the wrong message at _all._

“What’re you supposed to be?” one of the kids asked Brock, puzzlement on her face. “Mom said she thinks you’re dressed up as a Playboy Bunny, but-”

Brock choked on his Red Bull and damn near sprayed it all over the poor kid. He coughed and hacked for nearly a full minute before he finally had enough of a voice to croak, “Jesus, _no,_ why would she even- I’m supposed to be that Easter Bunny from the movie they’re all dressed up for.” Pointing over at where Jack was doing a surprisingly good job at bringing Jack Skellington to life, Brock shook his head. “I’m… not really the Halloween type…”

“So…” The girl squinted up at him and adjusted her grip on the little candy pail in her hands. “What’re you doing here, then, mister?”

It was tempting to flick out his pocket knife and spear one of the apples floating in the barrel next to him, but he had the feeling that the kid wouldn’t find it quite as hilarious as the soldiers on STRIKE had last year. Instead, he set his drink down next to his chair and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Helping little witches like you play tricks on your parents.”

The girl gave him a slow grin that got progressively more toothy.

“Tell ya what, you help me talk your mom into bobbin’ for apples, and…” Reaching under the table, Brock fished around for a few seconds before coming up with a small handful of Tootsie Pops. “...you get as many of these as you can fit in that little bucket of yours. Deal?”

“Deal!”

He reared back as the girl lunged for the candy and held them up above his head. “Ah-ah, nope, you get your payment _after.”_

“Well that’s not fair, you’re supposed to leave a deposit.”

Brock raised his eyebrows and blinked at her a few times, then chuckled and handed her one of the lollipops. “You’re gonna make a great lawyer someday, kid. Now, scoot, and go tell your mom that the Playboy Bunny asked about her.”

Two hours later, Brock flopped heavily in the passenger seat of their new-to-them, beat-up old pickup truck and shuddered. “Remind me to _never again_ accidentally flirt with a small-town soccer mom,” he groaned.

“Oh, far be it from me.” Jack grinned, the makeup on his face making it look wider, and started the truck. The headlights flickered as it grumbled to life, casting shallow shadows in the school parking lot. “I was having _way_ too much fun watching you squirm.”

“Asshole.”

“Hm. Your asshole, though.”

“Jack, come on, that’s- ugh.”

Jack just laughed and bullied the truck into gear. “It was kinda funny watching you and the kid manipulate her into messin’ up her lipstick tryin’ to get one of the apples. You tie ‘em to the bottom of the barrel or something?”

“Is there any other way to do it?” Settling in just sideways enough to not have the loose spring in the seat poking him in the tailbone, Brock stretched his legs out into the one warm spot in the footwell.

After he got them out on the main road, Jack reached over and gave Brock’s leg a gentle squeeze. “I’m glad you had fun, tonight. Thanks for indulging me.”

Brock captured Jack’s hand with his own and laced their fingers together. “You enjoyed yourself a lot, too. Your internal theater kid was definitely out to play.”

The drive home passed in companionable silence, their hands clasped the whole way. Before shutting off the engine, Jack leaned over and gave Brock a lingering kiss, then pressed his lips to Brock’s forehead. “Don’t be surprised if a few more things go bump in the night than usual,” he warned with a half-smile as he got out of the truck. “The Fair Folk get a little more mischievous around Samhain.”

“Y’know, if I hadn’t known you were raised Catholic…” Brock gave the truck door a little extra push as he closed it.

“It’s not paganism, it’s practicality.”

“Yuh-huh.” Brock shook the keyring that looked like it belonged in the Middle Ages at Jack with a pointed look before turning to walk toward the house. “We live in an era where you could have a retina scanner hooked up to the deadbolt, and instead, you give me one step up from a skeleton key.”

Crowding up behind him as Brock persuaded the front door’s lock to behave, Jack wrapped his arms around Brock’s waist. “Mmhm. Call me old-fashioned.”

“Call you covered in face paint is what I’m gonna do. You wanna mack-” He shouldered the door open. “-at least get it off your lips first.”

Jack chuckled and nibbled at Brock’s earlobe before heading into the house. He unzipped and shrugged off the costume jacket, tossing it over the back of an armchair on his way toward the master bedroom. “Admit it, you like it.”

Leaning in the doorway to give Jack an appreciative look as he stripped down, Brock grinned. “I like _you.”_

“Even when I can’t stop scouring the news for more intel on the Mandarin?” Jack looked a little odd with just his face, neck, and hands painted up, and the deep black shapes around his eyes were a little eerie in the dim lighting of the bedroom. He padded into the bathroom and pulled out the bottle of makeup remover, starting in on his hands. Black water swirled down the drain as he scrubbed his fingers clean.

“I think it’s good that you’re monitoring it,” Brock admitted, “even if we agreed to dial it back a bit. If nothing else, we can always find a way to get an anonymous tip to Harrison or something. Especially after that new bombing last week.”

Jack grimaced as he worked the remover under his fingernails. “Yeah, that one’s got me puzzled just like the last one. Another veteran that shouldn’t have been able to walk into the place, and no trace of explosives found near the blast site…”

“Jack…”

“Right, sorry.” He closed his eyes and sighed, then gave Brock a sad smile. “I just…”

“You want to help. It’s okay.”

“Yeah.” Jack swallowed, pursed his white-and-black lips for a moment, then went back to wiping off the makeup. “Tell me what else you got up to tonight?”

Brock had just finished telling Jack about the painfully awkward flirting from one of the other single parents at the school when Jack wiped the last remnants of white face paint out of his eyebrow. “Take it as a compliment,” he told Brock as he washed his hands. “Means we’re blending in.”

“I don’t wanna blend in,” Brock grumbled. “Not that way, anyway.”

Jack turned to him, making a confused noise.

“I just… I’m not on the market. Not anymore, anyway.”

“Brock…”

Reaching out, Brock brushed his fingertips over the rings and tags hanging from Jack’s neck. He took a hold of the smaller one and bit his lip, turning the ring over a few times before he looked up at Jack.

“I think I wanna wear this again. I want people to know I’m spoken for.”

Jack’s face softened and he gave Brock a wobbly, unsteady smile. “You sure?”

Taking a step closer, Brock closed the distance between them and tilted his head up to kiss Jack. “I’m sure.”

_“I wish we didn’t have to lie to the team,” Jack murmurs as he looks at the plain silver band on his finger. He gives Brock a resigned smile; they both know why they have to maintain the facade of off-base civilian wives._

_“We can trust Harrison with it.” Sliding his hand against Jack’s, Brock interlaces their fingers and holds Jack’s hand tight as the metal of Jack’s ring presses against his fingers. “He did help us get our heads out of our asses and set us up on that first date, after all. He probably already knows.”_

_“Yeah…” Jack looks at their hands and smiles, but it’s a little sad, and there’s a furrow between his eyebrows._

_It doesn’t take Brock long to figure out that misleading the team isn’t all that’s bothering Jack; there’s a more pragmatic concern bothering him as well. “Just wear one of those rubber gasket o-rings from the hardware store instead of the metal one when there’s a risk of injury. Put this one on your tags or something.”_

_“You’d be okay with that?”_

_Brock rolls them over and presses Jack down against the bedsheets on his back, their hands clasped above his head. “I don’t need a piece of metal and a sheet of paper to tell me it’s okay to spend the rest of my life with you, tato.”_

_A quiet sigh escapes Jack, and his smile gets a little wider and brighter. He strains upward to kiss Brock. “S’pose it’s a good thing our off-rotation ended up on the same days this cycle.” The pillow makes a quiet_ paff _noise as Jack’s head sinks back into it. “Maybe we escape down to the family ranch tomorrow for a couple days, call it a honeymoon?”_

_“Nah, I got this whole mission planned to the Ukraine for that.”_

_Jack groans and rolls his eyes. “Oh, fuck_ you.”

_It doesn’t take more than a few strategic movements before Jack’s making an entirely different set of noises. “That’s kinda the plan,” Brock murmurs in his ear. “Just, less of the fucking bit and more of the makin’ love to the man I get to call my husband now.”_

_They don’t end up making it down to the ranch during their days off. In fact, they don’t really end up leaving the house much at all._

The morning of November the 1st saw Brock wake up slowly, wrapped in Jack’s arms, with a ring on his finger and a dull, pleasant ache between his legs reminding him of the night before. He closed his eyes and exhaled, a slight smile on his face, then covered Jack’s arms with his own and wove their fingers together. Watery morning sunlight glinted off their matching rings as Jack’s hands automatically moved to clasp themselves around Brock’s.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not actually a new chapter! We have a beta reader now, Paint-stained-heart, who has done me the amazing favor of going back through Parts 1 through 5 of this series and editing them before we really get started polishing up Part 6. So, what this means for you, is that you should go back and re-read from the beginning. There aren't a lot of plot-critical changes, but several scenes were really improved and I added a few to help transition between other scenes better as well.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the updated, improved story! Part 6 will begin posting once I a) finish writing it and b) our lovely beta reader takes a look at it.

Four days after Brock first started wearing his ring again, their sleepy little town got hit with the first real snowstorm of the season.

Jack, wearing more layers than he had fingers, clung to his sketchbook with a death grip and flatly refused to leave the house. He hunkered down under a blanket in front of the crackling fireplace and glared daggers at the swirling whiteness outside the window.

Having grown up in the Bronx, Brock was no stranger to snow. An extra flannel shirt and some wool socks were his only concessions to the season, and he busied himself around the house with the never-ending list of mundane but oddly comforting chores.

A little after noon, Brock took a break and reheated some of last night’s soup on the stove, then brought a bowl over to the couch for both himself and Jack. “Leg up, my feet are cold.”

“And you’re gonna use your feet to make my leg cold instead,” Jack grumbled as he took the soup and lifted a knee just enough for Brock to sneak his toes under Jack’s thigh. “Could put some slippers on or somethin’, polpetto.”

“Nah, I like this better.” Brock smirked at him over his soup, cradling the warm ceramic in his hands. “Damn good thing we got the roof leaks fixed yesterday, huh?”

“Damn good thing we had Lonny’s help with it, too, or it would’ve taken us days. We should do something nice for him an’ his daughters, for Christmas.”

“Mm, no arguments here.”

It was a little surprising, how much the small community had welcomed the two of them with open arms at every turn. As world-weary and paranoid as the both of them could get, they perhaps saw more red flags than actually existed; thankfully, the townsfolk kept offering kindness and casseroles like it was their sacred duty.

The soup disappeared quickly, their bowls stacked on the coffee table as Brock grabbed the book he was halfway through. Quiet pops and burbles from the fireplace kept them company as Brock read and Jack shaded in a sketch he’d done earlier that day.

Just as Brock turned the page to the next chapter of his book, the TV blinked on.

Jack already had a hand down the back of the couch for the gun hidden there when the old Steamboat Willie cartoon started playing.

“...the _fuck?”_ Brock choked out after several seconds of dumb blinking.

Rolling his eyes, Jack pulled his empty hand back out of the cushions. “Hi, Mickey.”

The cartoon switched over to a webcam view of Jack’s brother giving them a toothy grin. _“I knew it.”_

“Knew what?” Brock demanded.

_“You two ended up at the cabin instead of dead in a ditch somewhere.”_

Jack crossed his arms and sighed indulgently. “Only took you, what, six months to call?”

Shrugging, Mickey scratched at his neck. _“Yeah, well, I wanted to make sure whoever you were runnin’ from lost interest first.”_

“Did they fake our deaths once the news got out we disappeared?” Jack asked, stretching his arms out along the back of the couch. He automatically turned to press a kiss to the top of Brock’s head as Brock wiggled up under his arm.

Mickey raised an eyebrow. _“So you two’re back together, then? Good for you. And yeah, they had me show up at the morgue at the Triskelion and identify both of your bodies. It’s a little creepy that they had Life Model Decoys just, like, ready to go for you.”_

“Shit, man,” Brock said, shaking his head. “Sorry you had to go through that, can’t have been fun even knowing they weren’t us. But how’d you know they were LMDs?”

_“Humans generally don’t have batteries in their chests.”_

Confused, Brock turned to look at Jack. “He’s a technopath,” Jack explained apologetically; it hadn’t occurred to him that Brock didn’t remember Mickey’s powers. “Just like me with my danger headaches and intuition, but with electronics.”

“...that explains how he can see us without a webcam.”

Mickey grinned at them for a second, then leaned back in his chair. _“Anyway, I gave Secretary Pierce a positive ID to make him happy, then went on my merry way. Figured you two weren’t actually dead if you’d taken the bug-out bag and the cats with you.”_

“We- we didn’t…” Jack stammered, blinking a few times. “Brock, did-”

“No, I think I would’ve remembered having a flerken in my lap for eight hours on a motorcycle.”

“Mickey, we didn’t take the cats.”

 _“Huh.”_ Mickey seemed genuinely baffled. _“They disappeared the same night you did.”_

Rubbing his forehead, Jack sighed. “I locked the door, right?”

_“Lucky took care of that for you. Said she didn’t have any evidence of the cats leavin’ on their own, though.”_

“So there’s an alien Cthulhu cat and a furry beach ball with legs toddling around DC right now?” Brock asked. “Are you shitting me?”

Mickey shrugged expressively. _“I just assumed that their GPS collars were on the counter ‘cause you two didn’t wanna be tracked.”_

“Their what-now were on the-”

A hair-raising, mournful noise from outside the front door made both men turn toward it; Jack’s hand disappeared back into the couch cushions.

“Brock, d’you-”

“Yeah, I got this.” He picked up the shotgun from its rack on the wall, slotting in a shell as he padded toward the door. Hesitating for a moment with his hand hovering over the knob, Brock closed his eyes and took a breath.

Yanking the door open and raising the shotgun to eye level in one smooth motion, Brock had his finger curled around the trigger before he realized that there wasn’t anything there.

He blinked and dropped his gaze to the doormat when something mewed pitifully.

Cricket and Moose were on their doorstep, soaking wet with their ears pinned back, hunkered down against the cold. Both cats had clearly lost weight, and Cricket bared her teeth and outright _hissed_ at Brock when he made eye contact. Moose was just hunched into a shivering ball of matted brown and black fur, looking up at Brock with round, green eyes and drooping whiskers.

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“Come get your fuckin’ tentacle monster before she _eats_ me.”

“Mother _fuckin-_ are you _serious-”_

“I’m having a shotgun standoff with a flerken, Jack. I’m dead serious.”

Jack swore irritably as he walked into the entryway, then reached around Brock to grab both cats by their scruffs. “Jesus Christ on a popsicle stick, you two. Where the hell have you _been?”_

 _“Probably hiking through a few hundred miles of forest and mountains,”_ Mickey supplied helpfully from the television, chuckling.

Scoffing, Brock closed the door and set the shotgun down. “How’d they even find us?”

“She’s an alien,” Jack answered from another room. A dull _floompf_ and an irritable hiss told Brock that he was attempting to dry off the cats with a bath towel. “Do we have a hair dryer?”

“No, because my name ain’t Fabio. Don’t let her scratch you, that’s how Fury lost his eye.”

Jack walked back into the living room with a towel-burritoed cat under each arm. “I heard it happened during the ‘95 Skrull incursion.”

“It did,” Brock said as he took Moose from Jack and held the shivering cat to his chest. “When he pissed off Chewie and the cat took a swipe at ‘im.”

 _“Well, good to see they arrived in relatively good shape.”_ Mickey laughed and grinned at them.

Frowning a little, Jack looked down at Cricket as she tried to stay both awake and cranky. “D’you think the supermarket in town carries decent quality cat food?”

***

Lonny’s phone rang just as the doorbell did; he hit the green button under _Philly Cheesesteak Dawson_ and pinned his phone between his ear and shoulder as he reached for the doorknob. Any time his brother called, day or night, company over or no, Lonny always answered. “Phil! Hey, man!”

_“Hey, Lonny, how’s it going? I’m stateside for a few days, thought I’d call and say hi.”_

“Pretty good,” Lonny answered into the phone as he grinned at Sean and Ethan standing in the doorway; he’d been hoping his two neighbors could make it for weeks. Ethan had a dusting of snow in his black hair, and Sean was bundled up so heavily that Lonny could barely see his eyes peeking out from between his hat and his scarf. “Salad looks great, guys, thanks,” he told the men. “Kitchen’s right through there.”

Phil made an apologetic noise. _“Oh, you got company? I shouldn’t keep you…”_

Sean and Ethan headed toward the large kitchen island, and Sean bent down to give Lonny’s younger daughter a warm hug and a fond _Hey, peanut._ Lonny’s neighbor Gretchen, tending the stove with a baby balanced on her hip, smiled at the men and pointed them toward the appetizers.

Once he was sure the men were settling in, Lonny turned back to his phone. “I have a few minutes before I gotta go. What’s up?” 

With the same directness that had led him up through the ranks in the Navy, Phil said, _“I just got the KIA reports for two guys I served with last year.”_

“...oh. I’m… sorry to hear that, man.”

 _“It’s fine, just… kind of stings that it took the brass six months to notify us. They were good guys, you know? One of ‘em was super into_ Star Wars _, the other was probably the best boxer I’ve ever met. Always spoke Italian with each other, thought we couldn’t understand ‘em being all schmoopy, thought we didn’t notice they were together. Not that any of the guys was going to report them, mind you…”_

Lonny’s lip curled as he listened. “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was a load of fuckin’ bullshit, and we all knew it.”

 _“That it was. Maybe we’ll get a law or something soon that means good sailors like Beck don’t have to hide in the wrong body anymore.”_ Phil took another deep breath. _“Sorry, god, that was a downer. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”_

Lonny looked back toward the kitchen and couldn’t completely stifle an off-balance smile as Ethan winced and tried to disentangle Gretchen’s kid’s hands from his hair. “It’s all good, man. All this Mandarin and Ten Rings shit has everyone on edge right now. Listen, if you need a weekend up here in the mountains, you let me know, okay?”

_“Wilco, Chief. How’s the girls?”_

“Susie’s in high school now, and Danny just got accepted to NYU.”

 _“Hey, congratulations!”_ Phil’s smile was audible in his voice. _“Well, I’ll let you get back to your guests. I’ll give you a call next time I have enough leave stored up to come visit, yeah?”_

“You do that. We always got a room for you here.” Lonny smiled as he hung up the phone; neither of them said goodbye. Superstitions ran deep in their line of work.

Walking back into the kitchen, Lonny plucked Gretchen’s little boy out of Ethan’s arms. “Did she seriously just dump her baby on you?”

“She had to go to the bathroom; I volunteered,” Ethan said as he rubbed at his scalp. “Gotta admit, it’s making me rethink whether I wanna have kids.”

With a laugh, Sean slid his arm around Ethan’s waist. “I dunno what you learned in high school biology, but neither of us are getting pregnant any time soon, polpetto. We’d have to adopt.”

“All I needed to know about biology, I learned from field triage.” Ethan leaned into Sean and shrugged.

“Amen to that,” Lonny laughed, shifting the boy to his other hip. “You boys want anything to drink? We got beers and hard cider chilling in the snowbank just outside the back door.”

When Gretchen finally shooed Lonny out of his own kitchen to _go be a good host, dammit,_ he laughed, grabbed another beer, and headed for the living room. Snow was still falling outside, turning what had been scheduled as a barbecue into something more indoors-oriented, but Lonny wasn’t complaining. Good food, good beer, good friends, and a good team at the diner that he could rely on to run things in his absence made it easy to relax and enjoy the time off.

He leaned against the doorway into the living room as he twisted the cap off his beer, chuckling as his older daughter, Danny, showed off her new lightsaber.

“I saved up for this for months,” Danny half-bragged, taking the prop replica off its stand with less care than Lonny wanted to see. “Dad let me send it off to a company to get it all modded so you can actually, like, whack things with it and the lights won’t die.”

“Really?” Sean raised his eyebrows, the scar on his chin stretching as he gave the prop an impressed look. “They do that?”

“Yeah, there’s a solder joint halfway down on the normal ones that’ll break if you hit it too hard. But this one-” Lonny twitched and had to keep himself from lunging forward as Danny clumsily swung the lightsaber around. “-is sturdy enough to actually _fight_ with.”

“Y’know, Sean,” Ethan said slowly, a grin spreading across his face, “that looks an awful lot like the one you made back in ‘02 for the movie premiere.” He was slouched comfortably into a corner of the generously-sized couch, one leg stretched out along the cushions with just his ankle and foot hanging off.

“You did _what?”_ Danny rounded on Sean quickly enough to make the guy startle a little. “Oh my god do you have _pictures_ I have to _see-”_

Laughing, Lonny walked in and nudged Ethan’s leg enough that he could sit down. “Easy, kiddo.”

“Sorry…”

Sean waved it off and smiled warmly. “It’s fine. And yeah, I built my own for a costume. What Ethan’s neglecting to mention is that _he_ dressed up as Darth Maul. Complete with the double-ended red lightsaber.”

A subtle, odd flicker passed over Ethan’s face, but he recovered quickly with a laugh. “God, that makeup was a pain…”

It didn’t take long before both of Lonny’s girls were begging Sean to show them a few tricks. He stood up obligingly and helped them move some of the furniture toward the edges of the room, then fell into the role of teacher with surprising familiarity.

“What branch did you say you guys served in?” Lonny asked quietly, head tilted a bit as he watched Sean twirl the glowing blade around with ease.

Ethan took a sip of his cider and gave Lonny an apologetic smile. “Classified. But I can tell you we were both special forces.”

“Makes sense.”

Sean guided Danny through a basic flourish, explaining that he had to do it a little differently because of an old shoulder injury. After a few tries, she managed it, and flashed Lonny a blinding grin.

A quiet, unhappy noise drew Lonny’s attention back to Ethan. “What’s wrong?”

Ethan shook his head as he watched Sean carefully. “Shoulder injury ain’t as old as he’s making it sound; only happened last year. Still, it should be healed up by now.”

“Well, weather’s been all sorts of weird lately. He might just be feelin’ the air pressure change.”

Ethan hummed and frowned. “Possibly. Granted, a torn rotator cuff isn’t a bad tradeoff for surviving a Black Hawk crash, but I’d rather he’d never had to go through that.” He picked at the label on his cider and gave Lonny a somber half-smile. “Regardless, I’m just glad we get to celebrate Veteran’s Day together instead of one of us visiting the other on Memorial Day.”

Reaching out, Lonny clinked their bottles together. Something about the Black Hawk crash tickled the back of his mind, but he couldn’t place it right away. “I’ll drink to that. May you two have many rainbow-colored years of thumbing your noses at regulations.”

Ethan’s laugh was a little less humorous than Lonny expected, but he didn’t look as tense as he had the first day Lonny saw them in his diner. His expression softened as he looked back at Sean, though, easing into a smile. “We have a life together. I’m thankful for that every day.”

“Still not sure about adopting though, huh?”

Ethan laughed a little more genuinely and shook his head. “We can’t even remember the day we got married, what makes you think we’d remember to pick up a kid from school?”

“You get used to it.”

The lightsaber went flying from Danny’s hand and knocked over a lamp. The dull crunch of the lampshade temporarily silenced the conversations around them.

“...oops…” Danny grimaced as she looked over at Lonny.

Giving Ethan a look of fond exasperation, Lonny set his beer down on the coffee table and stood up. “You get used to it…”

Sean spoke quietly to Ethan in another language as he held up the other man’s coat for him, and it took Lonny a moment to place it as Spani- no, Italian. When Ethan replied just as quietly, Sean chuckled and shrugged his own coat on.

“You boys good to bully that junker of yours all the way back up the hill?” Lonny asked as he approached, a few containers of leftovers in his hands.

“We’ll be fine.” With a loose grin, Ethan bumped his shoulder against Sean’s. “I’ll just make the Jolly Green Giant get out and push if he stalls it.”

“I keep tellin’ you, once we get the new carburetor in-”

Lonny groaned as he hugged each of them. “C’mon man, why’re you still running a carburetor at altitude? We have _got_ to get you into something newer.”

“I have something newer.”

“The Harley doesn’t count, tato,” Ethan told him as he rolled his eyes.

The two men bickered in Italian all the way to the truck, and Lonny stayed in the doorway shivering slightly in the chill as he watched the headlights flicker to life. Once they were on their way, Lonny closed the door and threw the bolt.

Susie’s head poked around the corner. “Hey, Dad, would you mind if I had a sleepover with…” She frowned and tilted her head. “Everything okay?”

“Hm?” Looking up from where he’d been frowning at his old, worn-out pair of combat boots - the same style he’d seen Sean wearing when they’d redone the cabin roof - Lonny blinked at his daughter. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine. Just, your uncle Phil’s deploying again soon-”

“Again?!”

“I know, kiddo…” Lonny wrapped an arm around her shoulders as he headed for the pile of dishes in the kitchen. “He’s gonna come visit again as soon as he’s able.”

He couldn’t help but give one last puzzled look out the window off in the general direction of Sean and Ethan’s cabin as he started in on rinsing off the plates.

_KIA reports for two guys I served with last year._

MIA might have been more accurate.

It was tempting to shoot Phil a text asking for details to confirm, but… if Ethan and Sean were hiding, they probably had a good reason.

...right?


End file.
